


One Serve of Workplace Harassment With a Side of Extra Salt

by Just_Another_Day



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Financial Issues, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 18:50:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Another_Day/pseuds/Just_Another_Day
Summary: When Theomedes falls ill and Kastor seizes control of his father's assets, Damen is suddenly forced into unimaginable circumstances.





	One Serve of Workplace Harassment With a Side of Extra Salt

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, I was just saying to someone a day or two ago that I hoped to get back to writing (including finishing my WIPs) once my exams were over in a few weeks, as long as I can get my head back into Capri rather than BnHA, where it's been buried for months now. And then _this_ happened out of nowhere. How can this possibly be the first thing I've written/posted in months? I can't apologise enough for this idiocy. (I blame procrastination.) Also, please note that although there is a joke about sexual harassment in this fic, I do not think actual sexual harassment is funny.

He's not going to make it, Damen realises. He wonders: if he tries to call for help again, will Nikandros answer him this time? Of all the times for his best friend to be out of reach…

Unfortunately, there's no time to wait on that possibility right now. His next opponent is already stepping up, ready to engage.

"May I…" Damen starts, then stops. Blinks. Blinks again. It doesn't help.

No matter how many times he tries to clear his vision of what _has_ to be a hallucination, Laurent de Vere is still standing in front of him, looking somehow as stunning as always, even in what should be ridiculously unflattering fluorescent lighting. He stares past Damen's left ear at the backlit board as though it has personally wronged him. Perhaps it has. After all, it contains exactly nothing that Damen thinks Laurent in particular would be interested in putting anywhere near his mouth.

(Or perhaps, just _perhaps_ , it's Damen who's wronged him, and Laurent's just directing his feelings at an inanimate object. For now. Damen doesn't expect that to last.)

"Yes?" Laurent prompts once it's clear Damen isn't finishing his opening sentence under his own steam any time soon. Laurent crosses his arms over his chest, a challenge, though anyone lined up around him who didn't know him as well as Damen might have thought his posture simply just looked casual or expectant.

"How on earth are you here right now?" Damen hisses. "Are you tracking me? Have you hacked my phone or something?"

"Please," Laurent says, "as if I would bother going to that much effort when Twitter will do all the work for me. You know, I'm even considering making one of the pictures that's been posted of you in that uniform into my phone wallpaper." Damen makes a disgusted face. "What? Don't tell me you really thought that no one would notice if someone famous showed up behind the counter of a dive fast food joint?" He tilts his head demonstratively towards a table full of girls in their late teens, all of whom have their phones out and are 'surreptitiously' (very obviously, now that Damen is actually looking for it) staring over in the direction of the counter (clearly at Damen in particular) and bursting out into waves upon waves of giggles, especially when they see Damen looking back at them. It probably doesn't help his apparent recognisability that the manager has scrawled 'Damianos' in sharpie on his temporary name-badge, even though he explicitly asked for it to just say 'Damen'. Apparently thinking along similar lines, Laurent adds, deadpan, "Hashtag McDamianos."

Damen groans. Laurent is right (when is he not?). Why is Damen even surprised that the whole world already knows he's slaving away at a minimum wage customer service job in a barely-fitting uniform (which might actually look better if his muscles tear through it, as they keep threatening to do every time he flexes slightly, because such a polyester monstrosity of clashing colours and boxy tailoring really deserves to be in ribbons). More public humiliation is exactly what this week needs to be complete, right? Though even then, that would be fine, and Damen could deal with it; he accepted the need to work here, so he can accept people endlessly commenting on it and laughing about it at his expense as well. So it would all be fine (relatively speaking), if only this one person hadn't felt the need to show up and see it with his own eyes (and mock it with his own mouth, inevitably).

"Now," Laurent says, "I believe you need to pick your jaw up off the bench, partly because I'm sure that surface is incredibly unhygienic, and partly because it's been over a minute since I arrived in front of you ready to be served, and you still haven't actually greeted me properly. I may have to complain to your manager. And there's a line-up behind me as well, you know. They'll probably all complain too, if you continue to keep them waiting."

Damen drags his eyes away from Laurent (which is annoyingly difficult to do) to glance at said line-up. Somehow, despite the odds, and probably for the very first time since Damen arrived for this shift, exactly none of the people in his line look at all pissed off at him (except maybe Laurent himself, of course). That's likely because three out of four of them have their phones out pointing at Laurent and Damen (probably filming this to post on social media, or even to sell to some tacky tabloid website), and all four of them are looking half-enthralled and half-amused by who and what they're seeing in front of them. Those are hardly the only nearby eyes pointed in their direction, either, and Laurent is getting just as much attention as Damen, despite him not being the one dressed in what basically amounts to a clown suit. Still, that's not exactly unexpected. If people are going to recognise Damen because he's 'famous', there's no way they won't recognise Laurent as well. Even if this is probably the last place anyone would expect to see either of them, especially under these circumstances, Laurent de Vere is unmistakeable.

And right now he's being unmistakeably snide. "Come on, now, it's really not that hard. It's just a simple greeting to start things off. Here, I'll even help you get back on track: 'May I'…"

Damen grits his teeth. "May I take your order?"

"Mmm," Laurent says, "if only you'd offer to do that in a different setting."

This is not worth it. Damen knows his rent arrears aren't going to pay themselves over the next few days before the notice he's been given runs out and he's evicted. And obviously Kastor is determined not to pay Damen's bills for him either; he's made that clear enough since he got his hands on their father's funds and immediately cut Damen off. But there has to be _something_ Damen can do for money that doesn't involve getting covered in oil, being hollered at by unruly customers and other staff alike, and smiling with all his teeth no matter how annoying the person standing in front of him is being.

If he'd wanted to deal with all of that, he could have taken a job as a stripper instead. Not to brag, but he bets he could have been paid substantially better for that, too. But then, he'd have been just as likely to be recognised and photographed there as here, and that'd be _far_ more likely to haunt him into the future than a week or two spent working at a burger joint. And if Laurent had similarly shown up to witness him working _that_ kind of job, Damen would have basically died. 

Although… 

Damen briefly imagines Laurent pressing bills into his waistband. He hopes his face doesn't show his thoughts.

He's not that lucky.

"Dear me," Laurent says lazily. "Are you actually blushing? Just what kind of thought crossed your mind just now? Inquiring minds are _eager_ to know."

"I'm going to have to stop you right there, because this establishment has a strict sexual harassment policy," Damen informs him. He has no idea if that's true, since most of what he was told during his two-hour orientation was a monotonous buzz that went in one ear and out the other, but he figures that he's covered either way, because surely, in this day and age, no manager is likely to actually admit that there are no rules or procedures in place to prevent their staff from having to cope with that sort of thing.

"That's good to know," Laurent remarks, "because I'm suddenly feeling rather uncomfortable knowing that you're apparently thinking about something sexual right now, even though I never brought up anything of the sort. Are you harassing me, Damianos? I can see the hashtags now."

"For the love of… what do you want, Laurent? A burger? Fries? My still-beating heart served to you on a reusable plastic tray? What will it take to get you to move away from this counter, preferably forever?"

"Oh, that last one sounds particularly appetising, don't get me wrong, but you can't continue to serve in this hell for the rest of your shift if you have a gaping chest wound, so I suppose I'll have to settle for just the fries."

"Small, medium, or large?" Damen asks.

"You tell me," Laurent says, his gaze flicking down Damen's apron suggestively (if anything that happens in the vicinity of a fast food apron can even be considered 'suggestive').

And there's the public sexual harassment again. Lovely.

"Supersized, then," Damen says, which earns a loud guffaw from the man directly behind Laurent. 

"I was under the impression that, for health reasons, this establishment no longer serves 'supersized' portions," Laurent says. Damen blinks heavily yet again. How the hell does Laurent, of all people, even know that? Damen will be beyond stunned if he finds out that this isn't the first time in his entire life Laurent has set foot in a place like this.

Then again, is there anything Laurent doesn't know? He's probably read it in a book or something.

"Fine, you're right," Damen sighs. "You'll just have to make do with large, then."

"Managing expectations, are you?" 

Well, he opened himself up for that one, didn't he?

Ignoring him, Damen asks pointedly, "Extra salt with that?"

Laurent smirks. "Oh no. I think I've already got that part covered, don't you?"

Damen rolls his eyes. "Then that'll be $1.99."

"The menu says $1.89."

Damen has a feeling he typed the order in wrong, then. (Oh well.) 

"There's a surcharge for attitude."

"Really? I don't see that in the fine print."

"Perhaps you should have worn your glasses, then."

Laurent's smile turns especially sharp. Damen knows from experience to be wary (as if he hasn't been on edge since the moment he realised Laurent is _here_ ). "Sadly, I left my glasses at my boyfriend's house. Oh, and speaking of which, wouldn't you know it, it looks like my boyfriend left the house with my wallet instead of his own when he _said_ he was going to class."

Damen flinches, and then pauses. Is that true about the wallet? He can never tell, with Laurent. (Or rather, he can _always_ tell when it comes to the things that really matter, but not at times like these, when Laurent is purposely trying to get a rise out of him.)

"And when I figured out the mistake," Laurent continues, "I decided I'd just bring my boyfriend's wallet with me instead and pay him back later. But it looks like he's absolutely broke and didn't tell me, so there's no cash to be had there, either."

Suddenly Laurent's mocking tone has more bite to it. Damn. 

"So what would you suggest I do in this situation?" Laurent asks.

"Ah," Damen says, "maybe go home and wait for your boyfriend to return with your wallet?"

"Wait for him to come home to _my_ apartment, you mean?" Laurent asks. "I don't know that that will work out. I mean, if he wanted to come to my place, my boyfriend – who's currently too poor to carry cash in his wallet or pay his rent – could surely have taken this opportunity to break his lease and ask to move in with me. But apparently he wasn't quite _desperate_ enough for that, even though he _was_ desperate enough to accept whatever job would take him in spite of his lack of working experience, so –"

"I would imagine," Damen interjects quickly (somewhat nervously), "that your boyfriend was just worried about your reaction if you found out about his situation and everything that led up to it. I bet that he'd really like to fix that mistake if you just give him another chance to tell you all about it tonight."

Laurent cocked his head slightly, considering. "I do like to think I'm a reasonable man, so I suppose I could do that. It might be worth it, if I thought he'd give me a proper explanation. With a side of grovelling. A _lot_ of grovelling. Do you think I can expect him to do that?"

"Yeah, I don't think he'll have much of a choice," Damen mutters. 

"Well then, that being the case, for now it seems I'm money-free, so I guess I'll have to cancel that order of fries."

"Oh no, please," says a lady in the line behind Laurent, sounding greatly entertained. She still has her phone's camera pointed at them. "I'll cover it. What was it, $1.89? Worth every penny."

She steps up and hands Damen the money while Laurent sends her the smile he reserves for those moments when he wants to appear genuinely charming (which are vastly outnumbered by the occasions on which he prefers to come off as coolly competent, or confrontational or slightly scary). She goes from laughing to practically swooning in a moment. Damen forces himself not to look even more openly bothered than he's already appeared all along.

"Thank you," Damen says instead, handing Laurent the receipt. "That'll be a two minute wait."

Laurent doesn't move. 

"Please stand to the side and wait there so I can serve the next customer," Damen instructs.

"Aren't you supposed to finish the transaction by saying 'please come again'?" Laurent prods.

"Nope. Absolutely not. There's nothing on this planet that could induce me to say that right now."

"Rude," Laurent concludes. "I really don't think you're cut out for customer service, Damianos."

Damen can't agree more.

Apparently neither can his manager, because Damen gets an earful at the start of his lunch break about the fact that an order for one serve of fries should never, under any circumstances, take him ten whole minutes to process. The girl now stationed at the register Damen's just vacated cries actual tears of mirth as the manager calls Damen 'Daminius' all throughout, proving that the writing on name-badges and famous identities both mean nothing to career fast food managers who are busy juggling mandatory staff breaks against the lunchtime rush.

Laurent is still 'enjoying' his fries out in the nearby seating area at this point, so he must overhear it all. When Damen can bring himself to look, Laurent is certainly grinning as if he's enjoying Damen's pain. Damen also gets the feeling that one of the other staff has even filmed the exchange, so he can probably expect to see the dressing-down get played back again and again (and ridiculed mercilessly).

Laurent is never going to let him forget this whole experience. Never.

**Author's Note:**

> So where is Nikandros in all this, if not sweeping in to Damen's temporary financial rescue? I like to think he took a few weeks' holiday from Damen's shit, and it just happened to coincide with all this ridiculousness. And in keeping with the ridiculousness of this whole thing, Kastor probably jumped the gun and took over everything while Theomedes was just out with a bad flu or something, so Damen's woes are probably pretty temporary (which would explain why there's no angst over his dying father here, right?). But honestly, if you're asking questions about things like that, then you're taking this too seriously anyway.
> 
> As a caveat: I've never worked in fast food before. I have, however, worked retail, which I imagine to be a similar customer service hellscape.
> 
> And, as always, feel free to shout at me if you noticed any glaring grammatical or other errors. In particular, I rarely write in present tense, so I kept automatically reverting to past tense, ugh.


End file.
